The Sound of Silence
by Stargazer Nataku
Summary: Alfred had always been highly attuned to the everyday, living sounds of Wayne Manor. Now, twenty-four hours after Bruce disappeared, he ignores these, waiting an listening for different sounds.
1. Chapter 1

_**The Sounds of Silence**_

**By**

**Stargazer Nataku**

Alfred watched as the squad cars pulled away, his face stoic and inscrutable, ensuring they had passed through the Manor's gates before he shut the door and turned back into the kitchen, made even emptier by the utter desolation of the rest of the house. Had it just been yesterday he and Bruce had argued about the home Bruce called a mausoleum before he went to the hearing? It already felt like decades past, though it had been just over twenty-four hours. Alfred had seen the young man on the news, staring as they worked over the murderer, had seen Rachel carefully draw him away when the first responders gave up on bringing the man back to life, knew Bruce was safe when they had left.

He had not come home.

A cold feeling settled into Alfred's stomach as he moved to clean up the coffee he had offered the detectives, finding momentary respite in the simple, familiar motions of washing the mugs and putting them away. When that was done he gave all the kitchen surfaces his habitual nightly wipe-down, then stopped himself from checking the cupboard for the chocolate chip cookies Bruce always asked for when he came home.

He had always been highly attuned to the living sounds of Wayne Manor, the gurgling of the pipes, the creaks and settling of the foundations, the wind brushing against the windowpanes, even, in happier, long past times, the sound of speech and laughter. Tonight, no friendly voices sounded and the other noises were muted as Alfred tuned them out, listening for other, more important sounds.

The crunch of tires on gravel. The sound of the door opening, footsteps in the hall, a voice calling his name.

He stood in the kitchen for a long moment, waiting, but the only sound was the forlorn howling of the cold winter wind outside. He turned, pondered the tea kettle, and finally moved to set it to boil, seating himself at the small table set aside for kitchen work. He sat, the familiar and safe noise of the kettle heating working on frayed nerves, giving his straining ears a little distraction as he sat and waited. When the kettle started whistling, he was thankful for the excuse to rise and take it off the heat, busying himself with preparing a perfect pot of Earl Grey, stopping himself in the last minute from taking two cups down instead of one, a motion of long habit that was not necessary tonight.

He poured a cup, adding a little milk as he liked it, before returning to the table. The next half hour found him slowly working his way through the cup as the tea cooled and he sipped only half attentive to the motions. The wind pressed hard against the windows, masking softer sounds, making Alfred strain to listen for the sounds he yearned to hear.

When he realized he was attempting to drink from an empty cup, he rose and washed first the saucer, then the cup. Yet, as he turned the water off, his ears strained into the dark night outside the Manor, and caught the first hint of sound.

The crunch of tires on gravel.

Alfred froze at the sink, dishrag in one hand, saucer in the other, dripping water onto the spotless floor as he turned and waited, watching the door to the kitchen, finding he couldn't move.

The sound of the door opening and footsteps in the hall.

It was not the police; they would have rung the bell. Only someone who belonged to and at Wayne Manor would enter without a knock or a ring to request admittance. Alfred's grip on the dishcloth tightened as he stared at the door, heart pounding in his chest.

A voice calling his name.

A soft voice. A feminine voice.

The tension shattered, as did the saucer, for Alfred had let it slip from suddenly limp fingers. He turned to lean heavily on the edge of the counter, forcing his breathing to even, trying to regain control of himself, the hope of the moment dying in his chest. He had mostly managed it when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Alfred? " the word died in Rachel Dawes' throat, and without another word she moved to pull the broom and dustpan out of their place in the pantry, cleaning up the shattered china while Alfred managed to regain control of himself.

"I am fine, Miss Rachel," Alfred finally answered, his voice once again stoic and in control. "It was wet and slipped through my fingers." She studied him for a long moment and decided not to comment on the obvious lie.

"Have you heard anything?" she asked, her face lined with worry. Alfred shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Alfred, I…I shouldn't have just left him there. This…"

"Isn't your fault," Alfred told her, vehemently enough it was obviously the truth of what he thought. "Bruce…" He paused a moment. "Hasn't been right in a long time."

"No, he hasn't," Rachel agreed. "Is there anything I can do, Alfred?"

He shook his head. "No, Miss Rachel, but I thank you. I'll manage everything until Bruce returns." She hesitated, studying him for a long moment before she spoke.

"I...could use a cup of tea, if you don't mind, Alfred. " He hears the unspoken offer behind it, to stay with him for awhile, to hold silent vigil for the missing young man. Alfred nodded and got out a second cup and saucer as he reheated the tea he had already made. He made a second cup for himself and one for her, and they both took seats at the kitchen worktable.

The silence fell again, heavily, only now, two sets of ears listened to the workings of the manor, seeking noises in the night. The crunch of tires on gravel. The sound of the door opening and footsteps in the hall. A voice calling their names.

Hearts that hoped reached out into the night, answered only with silence and emptiness and the forlorn cry of the winter wind thrashing against the old stone home. They waited together a long time, listening, as the tea grew cold and the night seemed to grow darker. Just after midnight, Rachel shook herself a little from a tired stupor and looked to Alfred, whose face was drawn and tired.

"I should go, Alfred. I don't want my mother to worry," she said quietly. The words were harsh, breaking the silence of the kitchen not only by their existence, but by their meaning. Alfred gripped the table for a moment before rising.

"No, you do not want her to worry," Alfred said. "Thank you for coming, Miss Rachel. Give your mother my best."

"I will. And you let us know if you need anything, okay, Alfred?" He nodded.

"Of course, Miss Rachel."

He rose and accompanied her to the door hospitably, and watched as she got in her car and drove away. Shutting the door again against the chill of the night, Alfred went back to the kitchen, washed the teacups and emptied the teapot, and returned again to the kitchen table to wait and listen.

There would be no restorative silence of sleep. Not this night. Perhaps not for many nights to come.

Author's note: Thanks for reading. Again, not much plot and something feels off about the ending, but oh well. The plot bunny bit and I had to comply. I love reviews if you have the time. ^_^


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Sound of Silence, Part II**_

**By**

**Stargazer Nataku**

Alfred tucked the duster under his elbow and closed the doors to the first-floor study so they clicked gently shut behind him, leaving behind another empty room in a too-empty house, stopping to get an extra set of sheets before stiffly making his way to the stairs. He climbed them steadily and went down the hallway to a closed door at the end of the west wing's long hallway. He hesitated a moment as he always did, unconsciously, before his hand found the doorknob, for even after many years it still did not seem right to enter this room without knocking and waiting permission. It was a clear indication of the wrongness that pervaded the Manor in general and this room in particular.

Alfred entered in the end as he always did, with a set jaw and a tight grip on the sheets and the duster in his hands. Nothing had been disturbed in the room since the last time its owner had slept there, five years past, the night before young Bruce Wayne had gone to the hearing and never come home. Alfred has made sure of that.

It took only a moment to remove the unused sheets from the bed, and a few minutes to put the new on with the military precision Bruce used to tease him about as a child. The floor beneath his feet creaked as he moved carefully about his business, as exacting and precise as the days when he knew the bed would welcome its owner at the end of the day.

After he carefully smoothed the duvet over the pillows to keep them clean, he moved to pick up the duster he'd set aside to change the sheets. Starting at the desk, he wiped away the dust, picking up each item with care and cleaning it and the surface beneath before putting each back in the exact place it had first rested. He continued with the bookshelves, still holding remnants of a long lost childhood and youth mingled with textbooks the young man had bought for his university classes. Alfred lingered over a photograph taken on the grounds of the Manor, picking it up with reverence and studying his own face beside the young man's, a rare smile gracing the younger man's handsome features. The duster moved slowly across the frame, taking longer time perhaps than necessary to return it to a pristine state. With a sigh, he set the photograph back in its original place, his jaw returning to the tight set of determination that had kept him here and working, fighting his continual battle against dust and disuse, firmly decided that Master Bruce's room will always be ready.

When he finished, he shut the door behind him and made his way back down the stairs to the kitchen. It was a little early for lunch, perhaps, but the rhythmic, thoughtless motions that were required in preparing a meal usually helped after Alfred took the time to reorder Bruce's room. Taking out a loaf of bread, Alfred retrieved some chicken from the fridge, leftover from dinner the night before, and had bent to get the lettuce when the ringing of the telephone shattered the silence.

"Wayne Manor," he said as he picked up the phone, voice rusty from disuse.

"Is this Mr. Pennyworth?" the feminine voice on the other end asked, and was there a note of hesitation in her voice?

"Quite right, miss," he said.

"This…my name is Jessica Rodgers," she said. "I am calling on behalf of Mr. Earle. He would like to set up a time to come and meet with you if it's possible."

"Of course," Alfred said, biting back the instinctual offer to come into the city himself. He had never liked Earle, and whatever the man wanted it would be easier to face him where Alfred was most at home.

"Is this afternoon suitable? Around three?" she continued.

"A moment," Alfred said, glancing at the calendar with all the days empty of engagements. "Three isn't quite the best," he answered. "Can he arrive about four?"

"Of course, Mr. Pennyworth. I'll update his schedule. Thank you for your time."

"You're welcome, miss," he said, putting the phone back into the receiver. Going back to his lunch, he made a mental note of the new things he would have to do this afternoon before Earle's arrival.

* * *

When the doorbell rang to indicate Earle had arrived, Alfred took his time in answering it, reflecting that if Earle couldn't even arrive on time he could keep the man waiting longer than was, perhaps, strictly necessary. He didn't delay too long, however; Wayne Manor did not have a master at home, but there was still hospitality to be considered. So Earle was let in and ensconced in the front parlor with a glass of scotch—not the best Alfred had to offer, for sure, but comparatively good—before Alfred felt compelled to seat himself in the chair opposite Wayne Enterprises' CEO. "How have you been, Alfred?" Earle asked, though Alfred could tell by his lean and the way his eyes focused elsewhere that the other man was not interested in an answer.

"Well enough," Alfred answered succinctly.

"Good, good," Earle responded, then finally focused on Alfred and, as the butler was expecting, cut straight to the point. "We—that is to say, the board—has been discussing the future of the company in some detail the last few weeks," he stated without preamble. "And we've decided it's in the best for future expansion that we take the company public. Now, you'll be handsomely rewarded for your shares of course," he continued, not noticing that Alfred's hand had clenched around his own glass, unable for perhaps the first time to keep his anger from spilling out.

"Now wait a bloody minute," he interrupted, shocking Earle into silence. "That decision's not yours to make, just like the company's not yours to do something so drastic with. It's Master Wayne's."

"Alfred," Earle said placatingly. "Bruce has been gone six years with no word. At this point, he's not coming back."

"Can you prove that?" Alfred demanded, forcing his grip on the glass to relax. "I don't think so, unless you know something the police haven't shared with me."

"It's too late to argue, Alfred," Earle said. "The board is agreed and the paperwork is ready to start the process."

"What paperwork?" Alfred demanded sharply.

"To declare Bruce Wayne dead," Earle said. "Don't be a fool, Alfred, you know as well as I do that's the truth of the matter. The world's too small for someone like Bruce Wayne to disappear completely unless he's at the bottom of Gotham Harbor." Alfred was stunned into silence, but what Earle said next had him rising to his feet. "I understand it's difficult," the CEO said. "But it's the hard truth, and it's not like you don't stand to benefit."

"The money," Alfred said contemptuously, his voice hard and his eyes narrowed as he glared at the other man. "Is absolutely worthless, and if you understood anything of importance you would realize that. My duty is to manage everything for Master Wayne until his return and I intend to do so." The threat in his voice was very thinly veiled. "Now you must excuse me, but I believe you can let yourself out." Turning on his heel, he left Earle sitting in stunned silence and made his way to the kitchen, still clutching his glass of scotch. From there he heard the sound of the front door slamming and tires working hard to gain traction on the gravel and, for the first time in his many years at Wayne Manor, did not care a guest had left offended.

He instead dropped heavily into a chair at the kitchen table, finishing the remaining liquor in his glass in one burning swallow, forcing it down against the anger and despair rising to choke his throat.

Earle's words were nothing that Alfred had not thought himself a thousand times, usually at night when his work was done for the day and the Manor was quiet in ways it had never been even after Bruce had gone off to Princeton. To have those thoughts thrust so rudely into the light of day by someone who clearly did not care was more than the butler could handle. He rose instead and fetched another bottle of scotch—a higher quality this time—and poured himself another shot, swallowing it with ease while relishing the burn it caused.

For a moment he wished there was someone to call, someone to invite to fill, for a least a few hours, the physically painful emptiness of the Manor, quiet around him. But the only other person who had ever filled that silence was gone and was unlikely to ever be there again. The anger ebbed away at that thought, leaving a heavy weight that bowed the man's shoulders over his glass as he refilled it a third time, this time nearly all the way full. The worst, he decided as he sipped from the glass, was the fact there was no proof either way; there was something beyond horrifying about the crushing desolation of not knowing, for better or worse, what had happened.

What Earle believed was true was probable, Alfred had long ago come to accept that. But it was not fact. Not until Alfred had a body to bury would he also give himself leave to mourn the young man he had raised as best he could under circumstances he had never expected. He sighed and drank some more, remembering that horrible phone call the night of the murders which brought him rushing to Bruce's side, a shell-shocked, traumatized boy that would never be a child again. He had done all he could, been there for Bruce when he awoke screaming and drenched in sweat, brought him to counselors, did all he could to teach and nurture and provide a stable home for a child who no longer had any sense of permanence.

He had done all he could, and it still felt like failure. Laying his head down on the arm pressed against the table, his head beginning to swim slightly from the effects of the scotch, he once again tried to understand where he had gone wrong; what he could have done better to have eased Bruce's crushing pain. But as always, he could think of nothing, nothing at all that would have made a difference in the end, nothing that could have saved the boy's life from where it had gone.

The phone rang, and for the first time Alfred was tempted to ignore it. He did not, however, rising and picking up the phone from the receiver. "Wayne Manor," he said, preparing to hang up immediately if it was Earle.

"Mr. Pennyworth," the voice came through the receiver, far kinder and more respectful than Alfred was expecting. "Lucius Fox. It's been awhile. I'd ask how you are, but knowing Earle's been out to see you I imagine I know the answer. He's not exactly…tactful."

"An understatement if I ever heard one," Alfred said.

"Probably," Fox agreed. "I wanted to let you know that despite the outcome, not all the board is united behind this move of Earle's. If there's anything that I can do personally for you, please let me know."

"I appreciate that, sir," Alfred told the other man. "I…am not quite sure what my next step is, but someone has to speak for Master Wayne."

"And you've been doing that for years." Alfred could hear the other man's approval through the phone. "None better at it, I'd imagine. But please, I mean it. Anything I can do to help, you let me know."

"Thank you," Alfred said, slight relief running through him. He hesitated a moment, then spoke again. "There is something you may be able to help me with, actually," he said.

"Of course, Mr. Pennyworth."

"I've a bottle of thirty-year old Laphroaig open which requires an amount of attention I cannot possibly give to it myself." Fox laughed on the other end of the phone.

"All right," Fox agreed. "We certainly wouldn't want to waste it."

"No, indeed. A travesty, as it were."

"And we don't want that," he said. "I need to finish up a thing or two, but then I'll be by."

"Of course, sir. Until then." He hung up the phone and stood for a moment studying his empty kitchen, listening for a moment to the normal sounds of the manor that were slowly coming back into his hearing. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and moved to the refrigerator, drawing out enough food—for the first time in years--for dinner for two.

The motions were familiar and heartwrenching, reminding him yet again and all too well about the young man he used to do this for, but for one night in a string of years, Alfred was not going to sit down to dinner alone. That was enough to push away most of the pain, bringing hope again to the fore. After all, if Lucius was willing to stand up to Earle and the board for Bruce, he had to also believe the young man was still alive. Knowing he was not alone in his hope made it easier, somehow, to draw it back around him like an armor he'd forged well over long years of worry. It still wasn't the answers Alfred craved above all else, but it was enough to get him through the night and, hopefully, through tomorrow.

For above all else, he had to be strong tomorrow. There were now things to do—important things—to ensure that Bruce, when he came back, returned to everything that was rightfully his. And who else would manage that, if it weren't Alfred?

"Chin up, you old fool," Alfred muttered to himself as he began to prepare the nightly meal.

* * *

Author's note: This fanfic keeps expanding when I'm not expecting it to. Thanks to CollaneR, whose review did the equivalent of throwing a plot bonny at my face. One with big, sharp, pointy teeth! Hope this adds and not detracts from the overall impact of the stories. Edits will probably follow on at least the second chapter before I take care of the companion piece plot bunny that followed the other. Thanks again, CollaneR!


	3. Chapter 3

_**The Sound of Silence, Part III**_

_**By**_

_**Stargazer Nataku**_

Alfred awoke with a start, squinting into the darkness to read the old-fashioned alarm clock at the side of his bed. The hands stood at just after four, and for another instant Alfred wondered what had awakened him at such an ungodly hour. Then, breaking through the normal night noises of the Manor, the sound repeated itself.

The telephone was ringing.

Alfred swung his legs over the side of the bed and into his slippers, grabbing the robe hanging on the back of his door before he threw it open and hurried down the hall. Again and again the harsh noise broke through the stillness of the empty house as he struggled into the robe and tied it tightly shut, all the while moving to the kitchen, hope rising against his will in his heart.

The telephone rarely rang at Wayne Manor. It hadn't on a regular basis in seven years. Seven long years of worry and waiting and, though most thought he was foolish, hope.

Alfred grabbed at the receiver and picked up the phone. "Wayne Manor," he said, and received only silence in response. With a sigh, he laid the receiver back into its cradle and flipped the lights in the kitchen on, moving to fill the teakettle, his heart still pounding in his chest with such force he could almost hear it. A prank, most likely, Alfred decided. That did happen, every now and again. A nice, settling cup of tea, and he'd either return to bed relaxed or start his day earlier than planned.

Yet as he moved to get a cup and saucer out of the cupboard, the phone began to ring again, causing Alfred's slowing heart to again race. This time, he crossed the room in two steps and picked up the receiver.

"Wayne Manor," he said, his voice steady. Ten seconds passed without a response, and Alfred was just about to hang up when a voice, made fuzzy by distance, crossed the line and made itself heard.

"Alfred?" asked the man on the other end, the voice Alfred waited for years to hear coming almost hesitantly through the telephone. He had to turn, and he gripped the counter for support with the hand not crushing the phone to his ear while taking several deep, steadying breaths. After seven years of alternating doubt and hope, his voice cracked his next words; he could not keep his stoic, unflappable butler's mask, not now.

"Master Bruce?" he managed in practically a whisper. There was another long pause.

"Yes," came the answer, and Alfred felt a thousand unvoiced questions bubbling up inside of himself in response, threatening to overwhelm him. He bit back the first—_Where the bloody hell have you been?_—, knowing even in his agitation that it would be counterproductive and not what he wanted to impart anyway. He took another deep breath, seven years of worrying and waiting and often despair shattering inside him into a thousand knife-edged pieces.

"Master Bruce," he repeated again as he tried to reform his fractured emotions into something steady, more himself.

"Yes, Alfred."

"You're all right." It was as much a question as it was a statement, the only of the thousand he decided it was safe to voice. The silence stretched longer on the other end of the phone, and finally Bruce answered.

"I am," he said, and the undercurrent in his tone implied everything while revealing nothing.

It was that knowledge, long yearned for, which allowed Alfred to steady the feelings rampaging through him, allowing him to manage a good façade of his usual calm when he spoke again.

"Shall I expect you then?" He could not keep the hope from his voice.

"Yes," Bruce answered. "But I need a lift. Can you send the jet?"

"Of course, Master Bruce. Where shall I send it?"

"Tibet. There's a small airfield outside the city of Shigatse."

Alfred wrote that down, the scratch of the pen on paper loud in the silent kitchen. "It's all in hand. I'll make the arrangements immediately."

"Thank you, Alfred. I'll be watching for it." A soft click, and the line was dead. Alfred stood, listening to the silence of the phone for another moment, before carefully replacing the receiver. A moment brought out a list of phone numbers, dusty from disuse, and he made the calls necessary, a sense of calm stealing over him as he did so, the questions churning his stomach fading into the background as he worked. When the arrangements were made, Alfred gently set the phone down, and then turned to take the teakettle off the stove.

He shook his head. "Never did think about going to Tibet," he said into the silence of the empty kitchen, then shrugged to himself. "First time for everything, I suppose." Taking a deep, steadying breath, he stepped into the hallway to return to his room. There would be plenty of time for questions and answers once he had reassured himself, with his own eyes, that Bruce was alive, well, and most importantly, coming home.

Author's Note: Okay, I figured out what was perhaps wrong with the story…it ended too quickly. Alfred needed closure. He's got it now. Please let me know if you like the addition, or if you like the fic in general. Reviews make Nat a very, very happy person. Thanks for reading!


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